


amicus

by bygoneboy



Series: nobody expects the ferelden inquisition [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rejection, Unrequited Crush, getting over rejection, this fic isn't as sad as the tags are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fire flares in his gut when he hears Solas laugh outright, his hand on Galahad’s shoulder—but jealousy is a nasty, unattractive little thing. And so he swallows back ash and turns his head, instead."</p><p>Prequel to 'Amatus'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amicus

**Author's Note:**

> **11/30/15: I made some major changes to this fic. I'm way more pleased with it now. Hope nobody minds!**
> 
> Okay so this idea was originally hilarious to me as it's a kind-of-true story, I didn't know that Solas was straight and planned on romancing him with Galahad which did not work obviously 
> 
> If you haven't read Amatus and you want to you can read that [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3319406)
> 
> All of the translations of elven and tevene are at the bottom! I tried my best phew

Solas and Galahad are long talks in the icy Haven air, brief smiles, gentle reassurances and honest chuckles. Their first conversation is also the first time that Galahad looks at someone and thinks, _maybe you are who I have been waiting for._

“Every war has its heroes,” Solas assures him. The elf speaks with the fever of ardency, the grace of a duke, the clever wit of an experienced raconteur; Galahad nearly falls for him right then and there, with the way that Solas tips his head and smiles and says, “I wonder what kind you’ll be.” 

Dorian and Galahad are tight-lipped disagreements, swallowed back sighs, fingers tightening into fists. Their first conversation is also their first argument, and Galahad seethes for hours afterward-- how can someone honestly believe that slavery is justified, that Tevinter can be saved? He does not entertain the idea that Dorian has never known better and does not see the apologies that stick in Dorian’s throat.

With Solas, Galahad learns beautiful things. The mysteries of his dreams, secrets of the Fade, pieces of magic that the Templars had never allowed him to explore in the Circle. One afternoon Solas introduces him to a friend-- a wisp of Patience-- and Galahad lifts his arm and touches the spirit’s hand, palm to palm. “Incredible,” he says softly. He is not only talking about the spirit. 

With Dorian, Galahad uses the word _magister_ once and is quickly berated. He grits his teeth while Dorian proclaims that there is a difference, that he is nothing like his counterparts. He suggests that the Tevinter Galahad knows is not the Tevinter that truly exists; Galahad suggests that Dorian has been blinded by privilege and decides, over Dorian's outrage, that it will be easier to keep his distance. 

But whenever he finds his way through Haven to speak to Solas, he can feel Dorian’s dark eyes trained on his turned back.

And every time he finishes his conversations with the elf, the altus is there, standing just a ways off with his arms crossed and his expression puzzling guarded. 

For all of his pomp and snark--

Too often, he lets Galahad pass him by without a word.

Too often, Galahad wishes that he would not. 

 

\--- 

 

With Galahad, Dorian says stupid things. 

Things that he can see unsettle him. Things that he immediately wishes he could take back, turn over, rephrase-- but Galahad makes him stumble. Makes him nervous. It’s not a feeling he necessarily enjoys but against his better judgment it’s a feeling he finds himself missing, when at last it fades from his gut. 

The only two things that they have in common are being a mage, and wanting to free them, and apparently, with the way that Galahad gives him the cold shoulder, that is not enough. 

The Trevelyan talks to Solas for hours, sometimes, his pretty lavender eyes shining in the light and crinkling just slightly at the corners when he smiles. Dorian has been in Haven for three weeks, and he has never been able to make him smile like that. 

With Galahad, Dorian watches him fall in love with someone else, and then, tripping over his Maker-damned tongue, falls in love with him himself. 

 

\--- 

 

With Solas, Galahad learns what it is like to disappoint. 

There is always something that he is not doing well enough, something he is not doing at all, someone he should have beheaded and has given a second chance to instead. Solas’s preaching wears on his mind, more often than he'd like. 

But these sorts of things are give and take. That’s what people say, at least. 

He has not had much experience with matters of the heart, in truth. Sex in the Circle was common, but love had always been a gateway to fear. The stakes were higher, with love, and Galahad has never been a betting man.

The safety of his new position grants him a freedom that he is not accustomed to. He no longer acknowledges Templars as his oppressors, and is no longer bound with the same restraints that had kept him from looking at anyone with more than a friendly eye-- and that is why he stumbles the way he does into Solas’s company, so bright-eyed and painfully hopeful. Solas brings him into the Fade as a companion and they walk there, together, close enough for their hands to brush-- Galahad, learning to unlearn fear, convinces himself that it is not by accident. 

Solas is fascinating. Quick-witted. Galahad’s natural partner in every rising tension that threatens to swallow them whole. 

Dorian is inscrutable in comparison.

Unfairly handsome. 

But entirely inscrutable.

 

\---

 

It has become painful, the warmth that he feels when Galahad looks at him. 

Hot coals burning in the lining of his gut, scorching up into his throat, he has to choke back the smoke because there are words there that he feels sparking behind his teeth, bits and pieces of phrases that he does not dare to say--

Galahad Trevelyan is probably the worst thing to happen to him since he reached Ferelden. 

_Give me another brain-addled Alexius! Maker, even time travel was easier, simpler._

Fire flares in his gut when he hears Solas laugh outright, his hand on Galahad’s shoulder—but jealousy is a nasty, unattractive little thing. 

And so he swallows back ash and turns his head, instead. 

 

\--- 

 

 _Aneth ara,_ greetings, _ma serannas,_ thank you, _dareth shiral,_ goodbye. _A halani,_ help, _arla,_ home, _vhenan, heart_ — Solas has taught him enough basic elvish to know how to string it together, as broken as it may be.

He has to consult a few of the dusty tomes in the back of Haven’s map room to truly find the right words, but he is fairly confident that he has it right. He practices when he is alone, the foreign words strange and thick on his tongue. 

And the next time that Solas guides him into the Fade, quiet lilt familiar and warm, Galahad stops him, fingers over his wrist.

He says, _“ma vhenan.”_

Solas’s brow creases; he blinks, as if he hasn’t heard right, or perhaps as if he is hoping that he hasn’t. “I-- excuse me?” 

_“Ma vhenan,”_ Galahad repeats, heart thrumming like a frantic bird in his throat. _“Ma’arlath—”_

And Solas goes rigid.

 _“Ma-- Ma’arlath,”_ Galahad stammers again, weaker, a question this time. 

“You’re young,” Solas says softly, in the common tongue. “I wouldn’t expect you to know better. You don’t love me, Galahad--”

“Please,” says Galahad, swallowing hard. He does not know how to say it any other way. 

Solas shakes his head. _“Ir abelas, falon,”_ he murmurs, and Galahad wakes, then, alone, bitterness tightening his throat and dismay welling in his eyes. 

 

\---

 

Dorian does not get the chance to truly speak to him for a long while after he and the elf have their falling out. 

He no longer makes his rounds to pass by the lodges that Solas and Dorian occupy. When Solas makes a point of greeting him, he bows his head and brushes past, words weighed with a heaviness that Dorian understands as regret. Their exchanges are brief if they occur at all, and although there doesn’t appear to be any outright spite between the two, whatever happened has reduced Galahad to a weary mess. 

It carves a hollow in Dorian’s chest to see him unhappy, whether he wants to admit it or not. And so at last he steels himself, and plucks up the courage to approach him.

They are out scavenging through Ferelden’s vast hills and valleys, drawing up vague maps for the newly recruited scouts that have trickled in through Haven's gates. Under normal circumstances, Galahad would have invited Solas, but since _that_ is obviously out of the question--

“How much further?” Cassandra snaps, her brittle accent ringing through the air as they carefully work their way down from the steep Hinterland cliffs. Dorian hasn’t quite worked out his exact stance on the Seeker, and judging from the narrowed eyes she enjoys regarding him with, the uneasiness is mutual. “I thought you said there was a river _nearby;_ it seems to me that we passed by _nearby_ quite some time ago.”

“Five minutes and you’ll be walking in it,” Galahad replies, just as irritably. “If you didn’t want to come, Cassandra, you could have just said so.” 

The two had had an argument this morning, on religion, Dorian knows. Voices carry, in Haven, and so do rumors-- which makes the veiled unknown behind Galahad’s pain even more troubling. 

When they reach the valley floor-- the river gurgling happily past, to Cassandra’s begrudging pleasure-- they slip their packs off and soak their tired, blistering feet in the cool water. 

Dorian wanders casually closer to Galahad, and when he’s sure that they’re far enough away from Cassandra to have privacy, he clears his throat. 

“Listen,” he begins, quietly, “I don’t mean to involve myself in matters that don’t concern me, but I like to think of myself as a particularly perceptive man-- and I can’t help but notice that you’re--”

Galahad looks up at him from where he’s perched on the river's bank, his britches hiked up to his knees and his fingers stained with map ink, and Dorian’s mind goes blank.

“That is--” he stammers, Galahad’s steady gaze rooting him where he stands. “Well, I mean, you’re-- er, kind of…you know. You seem glum. Lately.” 

He’d been a real charmer in Tevinter, he thinks sourly. When had he lost that charm? Damn the Free Marches and their handsome men. Damn Trevelyan’s pretty petal eyes.

“I appreciate your concern,” Galahad says quietly, getting to his feet and brushing crumbs of dried mud from the backs of his thighs. “But you don’t need to worry yourself over me.”

What hole in the sky? What tattered homeland? The fire is back, burning hot in Dorian’s gut, and he can’t stop the onslaught, the words that come blazing out of his belly-- “It’s Solas, isn’t it?”, and Galahad startles, momentarily taken aback. 

Still he regains his composure quickly, the recognition of the slip registering in his face, the initial surprise of the question melting away. “Why do you ask?” he says, stiffly. 

“Oh, please.” Dorian frowns. “I’d’ve had to be blind or stupid not to see the way you two carried on together--”

“I can’t say I know what you're talking about.” 

Dorian watches the muscles work in his cheek. “Hmm, no doubt. Did you quarrel, then?”

“Whatever happened, I can promise that it won’t get in the way of the Inquisition’s work,” Galahad replies-- _hear that, Dorian? That’s his polite way of saying ‘fuck off’--_

“Did he hurt you?” 

Galahad flinches, and Dorian stores away the stricken hurt in his lilac eyes as something else he wishes he could take back. 

_Kaffas._ “I’m sorry,” he mutters, feeling like an ass, “it’s none of my business, is it--”

But Galahad stops him, a hand on his arm. “No,” he says quickly, a brutal emptiness to the way he forms his words. “It’s not his fault. I thought I was in love with him, and he was kind enough to correct me, that’s all.” 

Dorian wants to breathe breathless laughter into Galahad’s tired, downturned mouth. To cradle Galahad’s face in his hands, to kiss the sadness off the lids of his violet eyes, to tell him that anyone who turns him away must be absolutely insane.

“That’s a strange concept of kindness,” he says, instead. 

And Galahad smiles.

 

\---

 

With Solas, Galahad learns to forget.

He stops avoiding him. He does not apologize-- after all, what is there to apologize for?-- and neither does Solas. They no longer walk in the Fade together. Solas no longer speaks to him in the soft poetic way he once had. It is more difficult, sharing his travels and theories, but less so, now that he knows Dorian will be waiting for him in the tavern with two tall mugs of West Hill brandy, and an endless supply of quick-witted banter.

Because with Dorian, Galahad learns to start over.

They have more in common than he had foolishly assumed; their views on religion, he is surprised to learn, are more or less aligned the same. They of course agree on the terms of mage freedom, and share a strong disdain for Orlais. Dorian is less enthralled with the exploration of the Fade than Galahad, but even he admits that he has been silently curious on a number of subjects of Solas's studies.

Dorian is funny, too, past his childish retorts and quick temper. He makes Galahad laugh until his stomach aches and makes him smile until he bursts into laughter again. He makes him feel truly young-- the kind of careless youth that he’d lost in the Circle. There is a whole different side to Dorian that Galahad has never bothered to tap into. There is a whole different side to himself that Dorian brings out in him. 

And he is just beginning to realize how harshly he has misjudged the altus when everything they have built in Haven falls overnight, to Corypheus and his red Templar army. 

His companions are swept out of sight and he is left on his own, without a staff, his mana draining fast, Corypheus and his winged monstrosity advancing before him; out of options, he slices through the trebuchet's ropes and then he is falling, the icy ground roiling and crumbling beneath his feet, into pitch-black, into darkness.

When he regains consciousness he crawls his way to the surface, but even then, he thinks himself a lost cause. Every direction is a wall of white, whirl-winding feather-light snow into miniature twisters around him. He stumbles aimlessly through the white-washed world, surging through snow banks as high as his waist, struggling past campfires long put out. 

He is cold, wet, shivering so violently that he can hardly keep himself upright. His vision is fading out, his body giving way. He is cold, wet, he is _dying--_

They say that freezing to death is like falling asleep. 

But when he next opens his eyes, it is not the black, endless void of what he has always pictured the afterlife to be that greets him, but sunlight. There are thick, warm quilts tucked around him, and distant voices of his advisors floating through the camp…

And Dorian, kneeling beside him, snow in his hair and worry in his eyes, is the most beautiful thing that Galahad has ever laid eyes on, in the haze of survival. 

As he blinks slowly up at Dorian, the altus begins to weep. 

“Dorian,” Galahad rasps, wincing in pain as he moves to sit up. His throat is still raw and he raises a weak, flailing hand; Dorian understands the gesture and grasps it firmly in his own. “What’s the Tevinter word for _friend?”_

_“Amicus,”_ Dorian tells him, squeezing his fingers in comfort. 

Galahad smiles. _“Gratia, amicus,”_ he replies. “It is-- it is so good, to see you.” 

_“Proterruisti me,”_ Dorian whispers, smiling, but his voice is trembling, tears rolling down his cheeks. _“Clarissima lux mea, te amo, carissimi cor--”_

Galahad does not know enough of the Imperium's vernacular to understand the translation of Dorian’s words. And Galahad has not had much experience with matters of the heart, in truth, because the stakes are always higher, with love, and he has never been a betting man--

Not before now, anyhow.

He brushes Dorian's wet cheek with the back of his free hand, still clutching tight to Dorian's fingers with the other.

He kisses him. 

Dorian goes deathly still. Tense, at first, but he unravels, bit-by-bit, when Galahad’s fingers slip his hair. A moment more and he is rising up onto his knees with his arms around Galahad's neck, and his lips parting to gasp broken Tevene phrases into Galahad's mouth--

Even when Galahad draws back for breath, Dorian stays close, like he is afraid to let go.

“Galahad—”

"Stay with me?" Galahad asks, looking at at him, achingly hopeful.

“Of course,” Dorian whispers, pressing his forehead against Galahad's. _“In aeternum.”_

Then they are kissing again, slow and sweet, and with Dorian, Galahad doesn’t have to think about _maybe you are the one I have been waiting for._

He already knows that he is.

**Author's Note:**

> ELVISH TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Ma vhenan = my heart 
> 
> Ma'arlath = I love you 
> 
> Ir abelas, falon = I'm sorry, friend
> 
> "TEVENE" TRANSLATIONS: 
> 
> Ermm not all of this is pure tevene! There aren't very many known tevene words floating around, so I decided to use latin as a replacement, since that's the language it's based off of. I hope I did it justice oh jeeze :O
> 
> Kaffas = shit 
> 
> Amicus = friend 
> 
> Gratia = thank you 
> 
> Proterruisti me = you frightened me 
> 
> Clarissima lux mea = my brilliant light/you are my only true light
> 
> Te amo = I love you 
> 
> Carissimi cor = dear heart
> 
> In aeternum = forever
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <33


End file.
